


falling, will, always

by vannral



Series: snarky banter and pop culture references [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Dorks in Love, M/M, Pining, Pop Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5765068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannral/pseuds/vannral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's in love with Clint and proceeds to freak out about it.</p>
<p>Or other words: superheroes with pining, heartbreak, insufferable drama and movies. Yeah, Peter doesn't handle his feelings very well. </p>
<p>(sequel to "sickbeds")</p>
            </blockquote>





	falling, will, always

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my other story "sickbeds" and sort of prequel to "why he never learns first" :)
> 
> I hope you like this.

Peter gets to leave a day after that, after Doctor Cho has deemed him well enough to get out of that stupid bed. He’s a bit cranky, his joints feel stiff, but he’s more than happy to get out. He’s got like twenty messages from Aunt May, so he calls back.

 

_Yes, Aunt May, I’m okay. No, this is AWESOME, it’s great. Yeah, they keep me safe AND fed, you should see their fridge, and did you know that Captain America can COOK, ‘cause it’s DELICIOUS – no, Aunt May, don’t tell me, I know his abs are great, ew – bye, I love you, I’ll come to see you, love you, bye._

Clint thinks it’s both adorable and hilarious. “What was that about Steve’s abs?”

 

     “Stop eavesdropping, Clint, not cool”, Peter mutters sullenly. “And yeah, she’s got a crush on Steve.”

 

     “Have you told her about Steve’s boyfriend?”

 

     “ _No._ ‘Cause that’s not – not public information”, Peter says and fumbles with his hoodie sleeves. “But she thinks it’s great that Avengers feed me.”

 

     “’Course she does, you’re like a bean pole.”

 

     “No, I’m _bendy._ Uh, flexible. It’s way different.”

 

     “Like a string. But with muscles.”

 

     “That’s – that’s not a string, then?”

 

     “Fine. Bean pole. C’mon, want some bagels? There’s cream cheese, here, and it’s great. Every bagel should have these.” 

 

Peter perks up. “’s there, uh – any red onion?”

 

     “Sure. And grilled chicken. Plus Nat baked some cookies in the morning.”

Peter sits up, and they eat bagels.

 

It’s comfortable, it’s _lovely._ Peter’s _happy._ He’s actually _happy._ It’s not just existence anymore, it’s _happiness._

 

It’s _easy._ During missions, Clint watches Peter’s back, and Peter watches his. It’s easy, so _easy,_ that – that one day, when Clint drags him out for donuts, because _seriously, they are the best, and there’s no whipped cream inside, c’mon, man, what the hell?_

 

So, when they’re standing in front of the desk with all those _del_ _icious,_ glossy donuts, Clint nudges him.

 

     “So, which one d’you want? That one with sprinkles or that one that looks like Batman’s face?”

 

     “Pfft, what makes you think I don’t want that pink one? ‘Cause it looks delicious”, Peter throws, and Clint _winks_ at him.

 

     “Well, that’d been my _second_ guess.”

 

And no bullshit involved, Peter falls in love.

 

Yeah. It’s not even a shocking revelation. It’s just _is._ A normal thing, a normal day, buying donuts from this same, familiar bakery where they’ve been _before,_ there’s no rose coloured _glass,_ just – just this comfortable, _lovely_ feeling settling in his gut.

 

Like it’s the most _normal thing in the world._

 

Pretty anti-climactic, if you think about it.

 

It’s a great moment. Too bad life _sucks,_ and reality sucks even more.

 

Because Clint doesn’t know, and Peter’s not so _insane_ as to tell him. Nope. Never. He’s gonna take the truth into his grave, happily and quietly. He’s just so relieved, so _happy_ that a person like _Clint_ is in his life. That he _exists,_ that he wants to spend time with Peter, to be with him like this. Casual, simple, _comfortable._

What more could he wish for?

 

So, when Clint’s telling him some story about former missions, Peter ducks his head shyly, grins softly and listens. It’s great. It’s _simple._ This is _enough,_ enough for Peter.

 

Although, he gets even more screwed, when he learns that Clint can sing. That’s when his brains kick themselves into: _holy shit, holy shit, what the hell – he can SING, GOD MUST HATE ME, ARE YOU KIDDING ME –_

     “ _– you write a book of love, you have faith in God above? If Bible tells you so…and do you believe in rock’n roll, Can music save your mortal soul…? Can you teach me how to dance – ”_

 

Peter gapes, because _holy shit._

 

His heart skips a wild beat, turns and dances. Seriously, why him?

 

Clint continues to hum to himself, completely oblivious that Peter’s _gawking_ at him, in stunned silence, and he’s just –

 

Finally, he notices. “Oh, hey. Everythin’ okay?” he asks warmly. Peter continues to gape, because he’s an idiot.

 

     “You sang American Pie. Don’t lie to me, _I heard”,_ Peter breathes out and stumbles to sit down somewhere near.

 

Clint looks amused. “Yeah, I did.”

 

     “You can _sing._ How can you sing, and never even told me?”

 

     “I dunno, never came up?”

 

Peter glowers at him, but then, his thoughts drift on. “Okay. Why that song? It’s awesome, but, uh, I didn’t think it would be… you kinda?”

 

     “Yeah. Reminds me of executions, for some fucked up reason.”

 

Maybe it’s a bad night. Peter doesn’t ask. Not like normal people would ask, though, but he does ask: “Wanna watch Lord of the Rings?”

 

Clint looks up, laughter lines, worried creases around his eyes smoothen, soften. “Hell yeah. Two Towers, this time?”

 

     “You’re on, _precious.”_

 

The Two Towers is just as great as before.

 

It’s a comfortable night. No nightmares, no flashbacks. Just popcorn, sweatpants and the epic battle of Helm’s Deep. They agree on that Grima Wormtongue is a creepy pervert.

 

     “He’s so panting after Eowyn, ugh. She should just crown herself the goddamn queen of Rohan and knee him in the nuts.”

 

     “With a sword. Shorten his head.”

 

     “Oh, yeah? And which head’s that?”

 

     “The one that’s…that’s between his legs?”

 

Clint chokes in his soda. “Probably too gory for Tolkien. ‘m not objecting, though.” 

 

     “Yeah, but… I like this. It’s like, _epic_ stuff, you know, bravery and honor and _friendship!”_

 

He beams at Clint, whose eyes are very soft azure in the living room’s dim light. They are warm, affectionate, and Peter hopes like _hell_ that he’s not imagining this. Because that looks so lovely and it’s directed at _him,_ and he really, really doesn’t _deserve any of it –_

(He really, kind of, wants to kiss Clint.)

 

But he doesn’t, because wow, no. Clint doesn’t feel the same, and…

 

Yeah. It’s better this way. _This_ Peter can deal with it, because unrequited love is…is familiar to him. Yeah.

 

_This is good. Nothing needs to change, right?_

 

He just leans back, and Clint’s close, and it’s comfortable.

 

(Peter’s totally a cuddler. No, he enjoys it. No, he’s _not_ ashamed.)

 

                                                                 *

 

Of course, since Peter’s living in the Avengers Tower, where super-stealthy, super _smart_ people live in (not counting himself in, of course), it’s not exactly a miracle, when _someone_ finds about Peter’s less than friendly feelings.

 

And _of course,_ it’s Natasha. Natasha, who smiles like a predator above her chamomilla tea, her smile sharp, kind of _smug._

_Oh, crap,_ is Peter’s first thought. _That can’t be good._

 

     “So…you’ve been quite cosy with Barton lately”, she drawls, her eyes glinting in the dim lights. Peter nearly drops his coffee cup.

 

     “What? Yeah, I mean – I like watching movies with him, I – I like, okay”, he babbles, and horrible realization grasps his insides. _Oh my God. Are they – are they involved?_ Oh my God. They are. That’s why she’s here. She’s here to kick his ass.

 

_Panic_ rattles inside him.

 

     “There’s nothing wrong with that, little spider”, she chuckles, her voice throaty. “I’m just wondering if you were going to tell him.”

 

Peter swallows thickly. “Tell him…what? I don’t – I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

     “Stop playing that, you’re smarter than that”, she grins and stirs her tea. “Tell _Clint_ about _your_ feelings.”

 

Blood rushes into Peter’s stomach with a sickening jolt. “No. Never, no. And – how – how d’you even know?”

 

Natasha’s gaze softens. “Because I care. About Clint. And…about you. Your little puppy crush is adorable.”

 

     “Don’t – do you have to _mock_ me?” Peter asks weakly, his cheeks burning. “It’s not gonna happen, okay? I’m not gonna tell him.”

 

     “Why? Are you afraid?” she teases him, her lips twitching wryly upwards.

 

Peter breathes shakily: “Yeah. I am.”

 

It’s not the reaction or response that Natasha’s expected; her eyes widen. It’s Peter’s _heart,_ raw and bare, right _there,_ in front of her, and he’s so scared he’s barely able to breathe.

 

     “Why?” she asks with a frown.

 

     “’Cause…I don’t know, it’s – he doesn’t – “ He inhales shakily. “His friendship means a lot to me. He’s – he’s my best friend, and I really, really _care_ about him, and – I don’t want to make things difficult by dumping my feelings on him like that.”

 

Natasha tilts her head. “What if he feels the same?”

 

     “He doesn’t.”

 

     “Oh? And why do you think that?”

 

     “’Cause – uh, because he has…he has you?” Peter fumbles uncertainly.

 

Natasha’s delicate eyebrows shoot forward. “ _Me?”_ she repeats in disbelief. “Oh, honey. No. He doesn’t have _any_ romantic feelings for me.”

 

     “But he – _really?”_

 

Natasha looks very amused. “Yes, really.”

 

     “You’re – you’re not kidding? If you are, it’s really cruel, and I don’t like you anymore.”

 

     “I wouldn’t joke about that. Peter…it’s all right, to feel for Clint. Really. You’re very important to him.”

 

Peter swallows again, shy and part, _stupidly_ hopeful. “I – I am?”

 

     “Oh, you should’ve seen him, when you were in Doctor Cho’s office. He nearly wringed Tony’s neck for trying to stop him.”

 

     “O- oh.”

 

     “Mmh. He refused to leave you. He wanted to know that you were okay.”

 

     “But – but that doesn’t mean _anything – “_

 

     “Peter. I am asking you to take a leap. I’m rarely wrong.”

 

     “But what if this is the rare one time that you _are?”_ Peter asks desperately, his heart racing. “I can’t risk that, I _can’t –_ he’s gonna _hate_ me, what if you’re _wrong?”_

 

     “Careful, or I might take offense on that. Remember who you are talking to.”

 

     “Yeah, I’m _sorry,_ okay, I’m _sorry,_ but it’s a big deal, and if he doesn’t feel the same, then it’ll be awkward and he’ll _hate_ me, and I _can’t_ handle that!”

 

Natasha grasps Peter’s hand and squeezes it. “Peter. I’m not lying to you, and I’m not wrong. I know Clint. I’ve known him for a long time. Please, _trust_ me.”

 

They stare at each other; Peter, in desperate hope and panic, he wants to believe, _so much,_ with every fiber of his being _screaming_ at it, grasping straws, _anything._

 

     “I don’t want to – to ruin our friendship”, Peter whispers. “What if you’re wrong? How _could_ he – he like me like that?”

 

Natasha sighs deeply. “You’re underestimating yourself, Peter. Just…just talk to him, all right? Take a leap.”

 

Despair convulses on Peter’s face, nearly bringing tears up. “Have you ever – had so much to, to lose that you can’t risk it?”

 

Natasha tilts her head. Morning light makes her hair glow like a fiery halo. “Yes. But what if he feels the same? What if he makes you happy and wants to spend his whole life with you?” she counters calmly.

 

And Peter _wants_ it. He wants it _so much_ it makes his teeth ache.

 

     “B – but what if he _doesn’t?”_ Peter asks desperately, because he can’t get rid of that horrible, gnawing feeling. He wants it, but he – but _Clint – if he doesn’t feel the same, something gets broken, and Peter doesn’t know how to **fix it –**_

****

Natasha sighs. “You’re being childish, Parker. For the _third_ time, take a leap. Whatever comes from it, you two will deal with it, like adults. Rejection is _not_ the end of the world, you know. You can always play it like a joke.”

 

Peter halts. That’s _true._ He could – maybe. Gauge it, if – if it’s true.

 

     “Okay”, he says finally, defeated. “You win.”

 

     “I always do, little spider”, Natasha says, pleased and proud. “It’ll be good, Peter.”

 

     “How do you _know?”_

 

She winks, ruffles his hair gently and leaves him in the kitchen. Peter would like to bash his skull in.

 

                                                                 *

 

So, the next day, he and Clint are sparring. Peter thinks it goes actually pretty well, he’s not a twitchy awkward mess and doesn’t stutter, when Clint grins at him, so feeling a little braver, Peter asks with a rush: “So, uh, how about that new restaurant place? Wanna check it out with me?”

 

     “Yeah, sure”, Clint says easily as he puts arrows back in his quiver, with practised ease. “Hey, isn’t that the place, you know, with that some great dessert? I heard Nat saying somethin’ about ice cream?”

 

     “Yeah, with bananas. Right?”

 

     “Awesome. Now?”

 

     “Uh, I’m sort of hungry?”

 

Clint grins. “Right, I forgot; bottomless pit. Let’s go.”

 

It’s a nice place – leather seats, dark, earthly colours. Also, _not_ packed with people, which is definitely a plus in Peter’s book.

 

     “That’s _awesome”,_ Clint says, impressed, as they’re looking at menus. “Fries sound _great_ right now. I could die for some.”

 

     “Please, don’t die, ‘cause then I have to pay for yours, and I’m a poor and sad farmer boy, and we can’t be together.”

 

Clint eyes him suspiciously. “You did _not_ just quote Princess Bride at me.”

 

     “Not really, but – something from there, right?” Peter beams, both embarrassed and excited.

 

      “Oh my _God,_ geez…can we just eat?”

 

They do eat, and surprisingly it’s not _awkward,_ it’s not _,_ it’s comfortable, just like before, and Peter just – _falls_ in love, even deeper, even _more._ They’re chatting, about stupid stuff, like when Steve and Bucky realized that _bananas_ were a filthy, goddamn _lie._

 

It’s very lovely, and Peter…Peter is so _tempted_ to call it a date. Like, it could be, right? It _feels,_ and Peter so _wants._ ( _Aren’t you overstepping, lil’ Spidey? Wanting something you can’t, right?)_

They eat the dessert, bananas, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, it’s _heaven._ So, they pay, and decide to take a tour around the street.

 

Bad call. So, _so_ bad call.

 

It’s so _lovely;_ street lamps, warm breeze, and _jesus, Peter wants to kiss Clint so hard._ Wants him. It’s a rattling feeling, it stuns him, _frightens_ him, and maybe, _maybe_ Natasha isn’t wrong, maybe he has to take a leap of fate, right?

 

So, when they’re walking and trading jabs about Stark’s ugly Avengers-tower, because seriously, _it’s ugly, dammit, Stark!,_ and then…they’re close, their sides barely apart, Clint’s warm, _safe_ beside him, and it nearly makes Peter _buckle_ down.

 

…would it really be worth it?

Peter _trusts_ Clint, trusts him with all his body and heart, but what if…what if –

 

_He doesn’t feel the same?_

 

Fear begins to claw his stomach, painfully, sharply. But _what if…? But what if he does?_ Which way to jump, which way to _go –_

 

     “Pete? You okay?”

 

They’ve stopped in a park. The lights are golden yellow, rich and beautiful in the darkness.

 

Peter draws a shaky breath. “Y – yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Of course. Um, you?”

 

     “Well, I’m _stuffed,_ and there’s no one shootin’ at us, so pretty great”, Clint winks and puts his hands into his jacket pockets. “That place was amazing. Gotta go there more often, yeah?”

 

     “Sounds good”, Peter says almost weakly.

 

Clint frowns. “Seriously, are you okay? You’re pretty quiet, and – “

 

That’s when Peter breathes: “I love you.” 

 

Just three words, _three words,_ usual and common, yet they mean _everything_ , and to Peter, it seems to last an eternity. _Then,_ he realizes that Clint doesn’t answer. He’s completely _frozen_ in place, stiff, unmoving. Horribly quiet.

 

He _stares_ at Peter, stares _like –_

 

Peter steps back, face ashen white with horror. “I – I’m – I’m sorry?” he stammers; icy cold dread plunging into his stomach. “I – “

 

He can’t look at Clint; can’t _look at him,_ so _afraid_ of what he’ll see – pity, _disgust? No, no, no, I fucked it up, I fucked it up –_

He can’t stay here, he _has to get out –_  

 

Peter gasps: “I’m _sorry!”_ And flings himself out of the park; wind tearing his hair, he lands on top of a building with gargoyles; his cheeks are wet with horrified tears, he heaves painful, dry gasps that tear his chest – _no, no, please –_

_I ruined everything. I – I **ruined** it. _

 

_I shouldn’t have. I – I shouldn’t have –_

He’s so _ashamed._ How can he look at Clint after this? How can he - ?

 

His cell phone starts vibrating. Peter hesitates and looks at the screen. _CLINT._

 

_No. No, I – I can’t._ I _can’t –_

 

Peter’s body kicks itself into a hysterical overdrive; he can’t – _he can’t – he’s just fucked everything up, he can’t –_

He’s so, _so ashamed._

 

What the hell _was he thinking,_ just – just _blurting_ it like that? No finesse, no _subtlety,_ just like ‘hey, guess what, I’m in love with you, does it make you feel awkward? Sorry!’

 

Peter’s head slumps against his knees. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

 

The cell continues vibrating.

 

Peter ignores it.

 

It stops.

 

After five minutes, it starts again, but this time, it’s Natasha.

 

_Whatever,_ Peter thinks, exhausted, picks it up and mumbles, voice hoarse: “Yeah?”

 

     “ _Where the hell are you?”_ Natasha snaps.

 

     “Out.”

 

     “ _Cute, Parker, but I don’t have time for this bullshit. Clint just called and said you took off, and he has no idea where you are. What **happened?”**_

 

Sobs choke Peter’s throat, and maybe it makes an audible sound, since Natasha trails off and asks softer: “ _Peter? Are you all right?”_

 

    “N – no. I’m not okay. I just screwed everything _up,_ again, and this time, it’s worse”, Peter gasps hysterically. “I told him, okay, I told him I love him, and he just – he just _stared_ at me, and – and I took off, and I can’t – I don’t _know_ what to do anymore, I can’t – “

 

     “ _Peter! I know this is…hard for you, and the last thing you want to think about is this, but…come back here, all right?”_

 

     “No. No way. I’m not gonna look at him look at me with – like – no. I’m gonna lay low.”

 

     “ _What does that mean?”_ Natasha asks sharply.

 

     “Just that. I’m gone. For now. I – I’ll deal with it later, I can’t _handle_ this right now”, Peter says, distraught. “See you later, Natasha. And – and don’t worry. I’ll – I’ll be okay.” _No, he won’t,_ but he’s not gonna tell _her_ that.

 

     “ _Peter, I swear to God, if you hang up – “_

Peter hangs up. He ends up at Aunt May’s. She takes one look at him, hugs him so _tightly,_ murmurs something that sounds very comforting and doesn’t ask, because she knows Peter can’t tell. So, instead, they go inside, eat ice cream and watch _Golden Girls._

 

                                                                 *

 

So, that becomes his routine. Sort of. He feels guilty for dropping out of the Tower, just like that, leaving Bruce and Tony, without a warning, but he has a suspicion that Natasha has clued them in. Sort of. In her own vague, sharp kind of way.

 

Clint calls – or _tries_ to, but Peter is so ashamed that he doesn’t answer. Aunt May always looks slightly disapproving of that, but she doesn’t say anything else.

 

After two days, she sits next to him and asks very quietly: “Young man, I think you should tell me what bothers you.”

 

     “Nothing”, says Peter automatically, and Aunt May clicks her tongue.

 

     “Oh, sure, and _pigs_ fly. I’m not stupid, Peter. You drop out here without a warning, looking like someone tore your heart from your chest. And don’t get me started on that Ben ‘n Jerry’s ice cream you ate at once. Is there something you want to tell me, honey?”

 

Peter struggles with himself. “I – “ He breathes, ice lodged in his throat. “I kind of…told Clint that I love him.”

 

Aunt May is quiet for a moment. “And what did he answer?”

 

     “He, uh… He didn’t say anything”, Peter stammers.

 

     “At _all?”_

 

     “N – no. And – and I just…”

 

Aunt May looks at him, both annoyed and fond. “And you left, didn’t you?”

 

Peter nods, ashamed. “Yeah.”

 

     “What if he was just surprised? You had a nice dinner, didn’t you?”

 

     “That’s worse”, Peter moans. “Oh man, I’m so _screwed._ I can’t – I just – I really, _really_ love him, okay, Aunt May? I’ve been in love with him for _mont_ _hs_ now, and now I’ve messed everything up!”

 

     “Peter _Parker”,_ Aunt May scolds him. “Calm down. I know this option might not make you happy, but I suggest you _talk_ to him. Clear things out.”

 

     “I don’t think I can face him”, Peter mumbles.

 

     “Then, why has he been calling you?” Aunt May counters calmly. “That’s not how a person hating you acts.”

 

     “You just proved you don’t use Internet, Auntie May.”

 

     “Hush. You have to talk to him.”

 

     “Yeah. Maybe.”

 

_No._ No way.

 

In the end, he doesn’t, because he sulks, he’s wallowing in his heartbreak, shame and embarrassment, and that’s how, after three days of his unfortunate confession, Clint gets tired of his shit.

 

Because after three days, he shows up at Aunt May’s doorstep.

 

Peter doesn’t even know that, since he’s under his fort of blankets, and it’s Aunt May, who opens the door. She raises her eyebrows at him, at this man, who wears an old jacket, jeans and sneakers.

 

He looks a little surprised as well. “Uh, hi. Ma’am. Mrs. Parker, right?”

 

     “Yes, I am”, says Aunt May, still a little wary. “And let me guess, you are Mr. Hawkeye. Clint Barton, am I correct?”

 

Now the man is definitely surprised. “Uh, yeah, that’s me.” He shifts his weight. “So, uh, I don’t know, if you’re aware of what’s going on, but…is Peter here?”

 

Aunt May tilts her head. “And why would you want to know that?” she asks neutrally.

 

Barton clears his throat, uncomfortable.

 

     “I – I want to talk to him. He’s not answerin’ my calls, so I tracked him down”, he says, and now sounds a little irritated. “So, uh, I’m hopin’ he’s here.”

 

Aunt May observes him carefully, under her eyebrows. He’s older than Peter, at least by a decade; he’s got a weathered, tanned face, tired and _old_ in a way his body isn’t. Still, he stares back at her, gaze steady and clear.

 

He knows what he’s about; he _knows_ exactly what this is about, why Aunt May is here, why he’s standing there. He knows and he’s _ready_ for any kind of storm and rage she’s going to throw at him.

 

But she’s not going to. “I don’t think he’s willing to talk, Mr. Barton”, she answers finally.

     “Yeah, I know. But he doesn’t have to talk, he just needs to listen”, he says, determined and fierce.

 

     “I know what he said, and…he’s been beating himself mercilessly”, Aunt May says. “He thinks he messed up everything you two had. It’s so important to him, so please…would you be kind?”

 

Barton frowns. “It’s not what you think, Mrs. Parker. I just wanna talk to him.”

 

That makes her relax. “All right. He’s upstairs.”

 

     “Thanks. May I?”

 

She steps so he can pass her. “It’s the second door on the right”, she murmurs as he goes up the stairs.

 

_Oh, dear…_

 

                                                                 *

 

Peter thinks he can hear a doorbell, but he’s so out of it he’s not even sure if he’s hallucinating or not. Last night anxiety got bad, and he stayed up ‘til 4 A.M. He buries himself deeper into blankets. Yeah, it’s warm, today _sucks,_ and he still has a bag of M&Ms under his mattress, so yeah, he’s good.

 

(No. Not really. He’s so _far_ from good it’s horrible. There’s a gaping hole, _painful, sharp like razors, and he can’t stand it – )_

There’s a knock on the door.

 

Nope. He’s not moving. Aunt May’s started to nag at him for not calling Clint – which he’s not _gonna_ do, nope, no way –

 

The door creaks open. Okay, yeah, that’s new, but whatever. He’s _not_ going to –

 

     “You know that’s not gonna work, I know you’re awake.”

 

Peter stops breathing. That’s not Aunt May. _It’s not. It’s –_

It’s _Clint._

 

It’s Clint, _Clint_ Barton, who is in _his bedroom._ Oh my God, oh my God, _holy shit, holy shit –_

Peter has a minor freak out, because _why, why, why is he here, oh my god, he’s in my **bedroom –**_

****

     “Are you gonna come up from there? ‘Cause I can wait all day, no big deal.”

 

Peter knows he can. ‘Cause it’s _Clint._ Slowly, his heart hammering so hard he can feel himself _trembling_ with the _force_ from it, Peter rises up, still bundled in blankets and peers at Clint, hesitantly and so very _afraid._

 

Clint leans against the wall, arms crossed on his chest, and he just raises his eyebrow at Peter. Just like before.

 

Peter swallows nervously and says: “U – um, hi?”

 

     “Hey”, Clint says. “Can I sit down?”

 

Peter nods. Clint sits on Peter’s old arm chair, leans against his knees and looks at him. In the end, it’s Peter, who can’t take this silence anymore.

 

     “C – Clint?” he breathes out, his nerves frayed and painful. “I – I’m so sorry. If I – made you uncomfortable, I didn’t mean to, really, I – I just – can we just pretend it never happened?”

 

Clint leans against his knuckles. He’s so _silent,_ why doesn’t he say something, _anything,_ SOMETHING, because Peter _doesn’t stand_ this –

 

     “Did you mean it?” he finally manages to grunt out, his voice rough, and he stares at Peter, who freezes in place.

 

Then, for some _stupid_ reason, that’s why Peter almost relaxes. He smiles, but it’s sad, kind of heartbreaking around the edges.

 

     “You mean you haven’t noticed? Like…I’m head over heels totally in love with you?” he laughs, and it sounds weak, tad hysterical in his own ears. “Yeah, ‘course I meant it.”

 

     “How long?”

 

     “Wha - ? What the hell does it matter how long? It didn’t happen in, like, _a day,_ you know”, Peter huffs. “I mean, sure, I had a crush on you, ‘cause you were so cool, but then? Well, we – uh, spent some time together, and then, you _sang,_ and holy shit – “

 

     “Sang?” Clint repeats, confused. “Jesus, Pete, that was _mont_ _hs_ ago!”

 

     “Yeah, so?”

 

Clint swallows, and he looks almost as wrecked as he sounds. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” he asks hoarsely.

 

Peter gapes at him. Is he really _hearing_ this, right now?

 

     “Like, it’s going really great right now? ‘Cause it isn’t! And I messed up our friendship, you don’t feel the same, and I didn’t know how to – “

 

Clint stands up; he’s an inch taller than Peter, and he looks – _strange,_ like – raw, rough, _desperate._

 

     “Well, if you’d stuck around, you would’ve heard my answer, you asshole”, Clint says, his voice deeper, just as rough.

 

Peter frowns, confused. “What answer?” _Rejection?_ ‘Cause that’s what it has to be, right? No way Clint’d be –

 

Clint manages a pained grin. “Jesus, Pete. You really have no _idea?_ How couldn’t you _know?”_ he breathes out, shaky and incredulous. “I’ve been pining after you since _forever.”_

 

Peter gapes. _Gapes_ at him, stunned, bewildered. No way he’s hearing this right, no _way_ this is happening –

 

     “ _What?”_

     “Nat was getting’ really sick of my crap already, so I was strugglin’ to confess”, Clint rambles on, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you – you took the leap, Jesus Christ, you decided to be _so fucking brave,_ so brave, although you didn’t even _know – Jesus,_ Peter.”

 

Peter’s lungs begin to tremble; there’s that _stupid, stupid_ hope bubbling in his veins, unreal and _tangible._ “So – waitwaitwait – you – say it to me again.”

 

Clint’s face softens. “Say what?” he asks, the _bastard._

 

     “C’mon, Clint, _please,_ stop doing _that!_ You know, please, tell me again”, Peter _begs,_ his heart thundering in his ears, _no way this is happening, no WAY –_

     “I love you. I’m – in love _with you._ Been for a while, now _”,_ Clint says roughly, laying his heart down to Peter, giving _it to him,_ with bleeding hands, gaze fierce and steady, and Peter feels like _crying._

 

     “I love you, _too,_ you asshole”, he breathes. “Are you gonna kiss me now, ‘cause I’d really, really like that, but if not, that’s okay, too, I just - _mmph!”_

 

That’s when Clint kisses him; he grasps the base of Peter’s skull, pulls him forward and kisses him; it’s a harsh, hungry, frantic kiss – their longing tangle together, and Peter lets out a shaky breath and kisses back.

 

_They kiss like drowning men, intertwined together in maelstrom, desperately, with everything they have._

Closer, _closer,_ until there’s not an inch of space between them, they’re together, fused and beautiful, and Peter is so happy, he could _die and not give a shit._

 

Clint nudges him very lightly, and Peter falls on the bed, caught between the mattress and Clint.

 

Finally they part, grinning at each other. “Hi”, Peter says breathlessly and beaming.

 

Clint grins back. “Hey.”

 

     “Is this really happening right now? Just that I’m not dreaming, right? ‘Cause then I really, _really_ don’t wanna wake up.”

 

Clint chuckles; warm, rich, _low_ in his throat, and he nuzzles Peter’s cheek. “’s damn real.”

 

     “Oh, that’s awesome.” He revels in Clint’s warm weight against himself, and plays with Clint’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

 

     “For what?” Clint grunts.

 

     “For running away. I panicked. I made you worry.”

 

     “Yeah, you did. But I get why you did that. ‘s okay.”

 

     “For sure?”

 

     “Mmh-hmm.” Clint focuses on pressing burning, lazy kisses down Peter’s throat, and a shaky breath escapes Peter’s mouth, his hips pressing against Clint’s. He can feel Clint’s just as hard as he is, and a delicious tingle jolts in Peter’s stomach.

 

He rolls his hips in automatic response, and Clint growls against his throat. “ _Jesus,_ Pete, you’re killin’ me here”, he grunts. “We can’t do this while _your Aunt’s downstairs.”_

     “Okay, yeah. Hey, isn’t the walls in the Tower soundproof?”

 

Clint pauses. Then, he laughs, weak and guttural. “Jesus Christ, you’re gonna kill me, clear and simple, I’m gonna die, and I’m not even sorry.”

 

Peter beams up at him. “I hope not, ‘cause we just pulled our heads out of our asses, so yeah.”

 

Clint brushes Peter’s cheek fondly. “You gonna come back to the Tower?” he murmurs.

 

     “Yeah”, Peter whispers back, nosing gently Clint’s neck. “I am.”

 

     “Good. Wanna crash in my room?”

 

     “Clint _Bar_ _ton,_ you disrespectful, cheeky man! Just what kind of a _man_ do you think I am?”

 

     “Shit, a man, whom I’m desperately in love with?”

 

And Peter _shines,_ shines like sunset, so bright and beautiful, so full of hope and _love_ that it hits Clint like a sledgehammer straight into his gut, make him rattle, it punches air out of his lungs, and this – this is the most beautiful _sight he’s ever seen._

 

Clint whispers, choked: “I don’t wanna force you, we can take this slow, we’ve got all the time in the world – “

 

     “Seriously, Clint, if Aunt May wasn’t here, I would totally make you make me scream. D’you think we can get to the tower?”

 

     “Sure. Can we just, uh…wait for a while? Like this?” Clint asks hesitantly, dropping his head on Peter’s clavicle.

 

     “Mmh. Great idea.”

 

So, they lie there, their hearts beating in the same rhytm, fingers tightly intertwined. This is _good._ This is so _great._

                                                                 *

 


End file.
